Thirsty
used to have something to do
with how your tongue
gets thick
and the top of it turns to
cellophane — all crinkly and
hard to talk like that
Thirsty
used to mean that
close by but
not within reach is something
that will make it better and
all the anticipation is making it worse
Thirsty
comes
before satisfaction but not
if you go by any old
dictionary and its rules
Thirsty
used to be
just the prelude
to wet
To see yourself. To see another.
To reach out to touch when invited.
To be touched in return at your own invitation.
To strip another, then play.
To be stripped by another, then played with.
To strip mutually and play together.
To take on full nakedness and take on all else that way.
To wear the playclothes, to take on all the toys.
To be yourself. To be another. To be each other.
To play with another at being selves or others.
To arch and stretch and turn and moan together or alone.
To do nothing like anything already spoken of.
To find another way to see the Fire and chase it.
To come to the edge of the Fire and run with it as it gallops along.
To run alone or with others parallel to the edge of the Fire.
To leap across into the char behind the Fire’s edge.
To leap back again. To do the great back and forth across the Fire.
To be flame resistant. To be Fireproof. To be unscathed.
To be singed. To be the Fire. To be burned.
To find yourself or another in the burn.
To never cease burning. To live on Fire.
New Poem.
In meditation to starve
my greatest fever, I
realize suddenly
what folly this is
and lift my head from
pose to say: not
for nothing is there
such fever. Not for nothing
do we let a little of it in
to raise us to just under
boiling point — a small
concession but
with that concession
comes relief from full fever,
relief I never found before this
when I denied that fever existed,
or by claiming that
it could be forgotten
by rejecting outright our true need
for at least a little bit of such heat.
I return to meditation
more easily now that I have
told this truth. I am calmed,
whole, sated, and safe
knowing that full denial
of an appetite for what is natural
is neither my continued aim
nor my future false hope.
Originally posted 12/19/2012; original title, “Blue Sex.”
This early,
this warm.
This dark
singing,
a tangled
blues;
lemon squeezing, starter mashing,
rolling, tumbling,
juice runs down our legs blues;
“can’t be satisfied — ”
challenge, not lament;
slide ice cube
stinging it,
gliding it
fast between mouths
and bellies;
sun will barge in
soon enough —
how humid it’ll smell then,
our hair torn up along with the room,
‘Sweet Home Chicago” in the background.
No matter how Mississippi
it gets in here
this warm,
this early,
this dark,
we always end up
asking each other,
“baby —
baby don’t you
wanna go?”
Originally posted on 10/21/2009.
Amusingly enough and perhaps not surprisingly, this is the single most visited poem on this blog. I would imagine a LOT of those who find it on a search are surprised when they get to a poem…I suppose I owe it to myself and those countless mystified seekers to do a revision.
Yes, it really happened. Here’s the link:
World record in Japan: largest orgy
____________________________________________________________________________________________
“Synchronized positions from oral sex, 69 action, girl on top sex, zoom ups on various individuals and ejaculations on the breasts to complete the production.” — from the ad for the DVD of the event
Only the untried imagining
is ever truly perfect
so it seems safe to assume the actual event
was as awkward in execution
as it seems to appear from the photos
of two hundred and fifty couples
in normed and scripted unison,
all allegedly getting off
in dry anticipation
of commercial gain and worldwide
admiration
as the cameras whirred.
No doubt somewhere
out in that warehouse
someone was thinking of the past,
and someone else of the future.
At least a few
were likely looking elsewhere,
those lovely bodies
moaning on the next mat
urging them on
in the name of
achieving individual goals —
fame,
bragging rights,
the honor of having been there,
a jump start for fading lust,
a rocks-off jazzing of a minimal life,
a fantasy of visibility
amplifying the personal moment.
What happened afterward
is unrecorded.
It seems safe to assume
that some left together
and some did not.
Some surely went home
and did something
that hadn’t been in the script.
Some have since
tried to forget
that it ever happened.
Some thought about
making it bigger,
grander, introducing new elements,
new positions and toys.
Perhaps they called up
a few friends
to rehearse.
Somewhere out there
beyond the synchronized acts
and the documented proof of said acts
perfection remains
untouched
and it will still be there
when we get up tomorrow
from wherever
we’ve laid ourselves down
tonight.
Originally posted 8/29/2012, titled “Why You Should Have A Clock Radio”
You should have a radio in the bedroom
so that you may wake tomorrow to a song
that has both a violin
and a steady drum
and if you do,
you should not just obey
the dull urge to habit,
too quickly rising from bed
and away from the music
into the day to occupy yourself
with the business of living
instead of the joy of it,
for how often does it happen
that you wake up early
with a sweet fiddle in your ear
and a lover next to you,
the soft insistence of the drum
and that slippery, wicked bow
suggesting something better
you could be doing?
Oh,
oh, oh,
oh,
oh, oh…
a ripple.
A ripple
at the nipple.
Supple and
apple-sweet, it
peaks, peeks out
trembling…
rippling…tripping
the nip fantastic,
rhythm of apple-ripple
under and around
the nipple…
oh, oh,
oh, oh, oh…
I feel that. (Feel that?)
That feel? Can you,
can you, can you
feel that
as you should,
oh, how then
to honor
skin so shy, shy,
shrinking back
then
tipping the ripple
ahead
and back, around
and
round, apple bump red
sweet skin taut
and night shine soft,
crisp to the tooth…
oh,
a tipple-full night
of
sweet bumps and
slides,
suspended chords
sing
in our throats,
slip-whip-snap of head
and night long arc of swing
and fumble
and
rumble-ripple —
OH! THERE!
Oh,
oh,
the jumble swift
sloppy
rolling sea of this,
this beach head
near
the orchard of night, this
all started
with ripple
at nipple,
ends
there.
Sacred, but no high priests —
only novices.
Begins as routine,
becomes ecstatic.
A bloom, a spike, a rolling boil,
a helter skelter scream.
Tapping deep river, following its course
along dark banks.
A dance taught
by the sway of wind-sweetened woods.
Assumption, ascension;
no savior but the moment itself —
ritual burst of joy,
usually, at the end.
This warm,
this early,
sex
becomes a blues:
lemon squeezing,
starter mashing,
rolling,
tumbling,
juice sliding down our legs blues;
“can’t be satisfied”
rumbling out for challenge,
not lament.
No guitar here?
Use an ice cube instead,
stinging it, sliding it,
running fast between mouths
and bellies.
The sun will barge in soon enough.
How humid it’ll smell then,
our hair torn up
along with the room;
Chicago, sweet home Chicago in the background —
no matter how Mississippi
it gets in here
this warm, this early, this dark,
we always end up
asking each other,
over and over,
“Baby —
baby, don’t you wanna go?”
I don’t want sex.
I want mouth.
I want touch
and steam down south.
I don’t want sex.
I want noise.
I want redemption
in your rolled-up eyes.
All the focus
is on the old in and out.
But the right motion
is not what it’s about.
I don’t want sex.
I want to transcend.
Sex is a good start,
one means to an end.
Two hunting together,
that’s what I want.
Two hunting together
for love of the hunt.
So, yes to the finger
and yes to the bone.
Yes to the red rush
into the zone.
Yes to the gale
and yes to the scream.
Yes fire, yes embers,
yes dinosaur dream.
I don’t want sex
if we can animal turn
this and that into something
we both long to learn.
If you wake tomorrow
to a song with a violin and a steady drum,
do not step into the day
and away from the music
too quickly, occupying yourself
with the business of living
instead of the joy of it.
Really, how often does it happen
that you wake up early for work
with a sweet fiddle in your ear
and a lover next to you?
Don’t the soft drum
and the sidling of the wicked bow
suggest something other than
getting up for work?
at dusk
we shared tea
over talk of monty python and brian eno
i said
“i really loved
the ‘taking tiger mountain
by strategy’
album”
then we spoke of michael palin
and his travels
around the pacific rim
you said
“i can’t help it
i kept waiting for him
to sit at a piano
and for his clothes
to fly up into the air”
it’s always sex with you
or at least nudity
for which I am profoundly thankful
as we lie together
with warm ambient music
and clear expectations
in our ring of fire
Yes, it really happened. Here’s the link:
World record in Japan: largest orgy
____________________________________________________________________________________________
World Record in Japan: Largest Orgy
“Synchronized positions from oral sex, 69 action, girl on top sex, zoom ups on various individuals and ejaculations on the breasts to complete the production.” — from the ad for the DVD of the event
Only the untried imagining
is ever truly perfect,
so let’s assume the actual event
was as awkward in execution
as it seems to appear from the photos:
two hundred and fifty couples
in normed and scripted unison,
all allegedly getting off
in dry anticipation
of commercial gain and worldwide
admiration
as the cameras whirred.
You can bet that somewhere
out in the warehouse
someone was thinking of the past,
and someone else of the future,
at least a few were likely
looking elsewhere,
the lovely bodies
moaning on the next mat
urging them on
in the name of
achieving individual goals:
fame, or bragging rights;
the honor of having been there;
a jump start for fading lust;
a rocks-off jazzing of a minimal life;
a fantasy of everything visible
amplifying the personal moment.
What happened afterward
is unrecorded
but it seems likely
that some left together
and some did not. Some
likely tried to forget
that it had happened,
some went home
and did something
that hadn’t been in the script;
some thought about making it bigger,
grander, introducing new elements,
new positions and toys, perhaps
calling up a few friends
to rehearse.
Somewhere out there,
beyond
the synchronized acts
and the documented proof
of said acts,
perfection remains,
and it will still be there
when we get up tomorrow
from wherever we’ve laid ourselves down
tonight.
Dark Matter
Dark Matter 